In My Eyes
by KomatheSoap
Summary: Romano is the most perfect person in Spain's eyes. But what happens when Romano can't see that?


"Italy Romano!" Spain called as he pushed open his own front door, a big grin on his face. "I'm home!" He entered into his own walkway, expecting to see the little Italian run up and yell at him for being late, or simply because he had gotten bored by himself. But this time, nothing. "Romano?" The man called as he hung up his brown coat on the coat rack. "Are you here?" He felt a slight pang of worry in his chest, but he pushed it aside. _Nothing is wrong, Spain. He's okay. He's just sleeping. Probably. _The man knew he had nothing to worry about, in all likelihood the younger nation _was _most likely simply asleep, but the fear was still there. The Ottoman Empire, and heck, even _France _had shown an interest in Italy. While it was highly unlikely, it was possible one of them snuck in and kidnapped Romano. Unlikely, yes. Impossible, no.

"Romano? Are you asleep?" Spain called, walking through his lovely house to reach the younger boy's room. He cracked open the door. Quietly the brunette tip-toed into the room, and saw a Romano-shaped lump underneath his white blankets. _Aha! _He smirked, creeping up behind the small shape. _I'll teach you to rudely wake me up all the time! _He bent down behind the child, wide grin on his face. _Payback time! _He grabbed two fistfuls of the boy's blankets, and yanked it back.

"Wakey wakey!" He laughed as the blankets fluttered to the floor to reveal the Italian…curled into a fetal position? Not only that, but he was quivering.

"G-go away, bastard." The small boy whimpered, his back to Spain. Immediately he realized something was wrong. The younger sounded like he was crying.

"Romano?" He asked, sitting next to Southern Italy despite the formers protests. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Now g-go away."

"Romano?" Spain looked the boy over, or at least what he could see of him-to see no injuries. No blood, he looked unharmed. "What's the matter?" _Is he sick? Did someone pick on him again? _

"Nothing." Romano insisted. Spain was quiet, looking at the wobbling form. What was the matter?

"Italy Romano-" He began, reaching a hand to touch the boy's back.

"D-don't call me that!" The boy yelled, sitting up and swatting the hand away, turning to glare at the Spaniard. "Ever!" His swift move surprised Spain, who could now see the boy's tear-stained face.

"Why?" His brow furrowed in concern. _What happened? _

"Because I-I," Romano cut himself off to bury his face in Spain's chest, pulling the man's shirt closer. "I'm not good enough." He mumbled. Hearing that made Spain's brow furrow even further. _Not good enough? What? _Seeing Romano that hysterical, sobbing over not 'being good enough' felt like a dagger inside his own heart.

"Why would you say that?" Spain asked, wrapping his arms around the sobbing man and pulling him into a hug.

"I-I'm no good at anything." He said quietly. "Just a waste of space. Worthless."

"Roma-"

"Nobody even calls me Italy. Veneziano's Italy, and I'm just 'Romano'. It's just you that calls me Italy." At that, Spain fell silent. He was right. To the rest of the world, North Italy was 'Italy' and the south was just 'Romano'. "And I can't draw. Or cook. Or clean. Or even make friends! I'll never be as good as my brother!"

"That's not true, Italy Romano." Spain said quietly, sadly. "I'm your friend." How could Romano not see how wonderful he really was? How cute he was, and how caring? (Even if he did often hide it behind a bristly exterior.) "You're wonderful. And perfect."

"L-liar."

"Well you at least have me as your friend. And Belgium seems to like you too."

"Oh really?" Spain smirked, seeing his trump card. "What about all the times I stopped France from taking you, huh? Or what about the time I saved you from The Ottoman Empire? I could have let both of them take you, but I didn't. What's your answer to that wise-guy?" He moved his arms and tickled the younger boy's armpits. Romano laughed, pulling away from Spain, kicking and trying to push him away.

"S-stop it!" He commanded between laughs as he fell on his back on the bed. Spain only grinned wider and continued to tickle him.

"Then admit you're wrong! Do it!" He said.

"F-fine. I'm wrong! I'm wrong!" The boy yelled to end the relentless onslaught. Spain stopped, his smile faded.

"You're the exact opposite of worthless, alright? Roma you're _so_ important to _so many _people. Don't ever belittle yourself again." He said, green eyes looking deep into brown ones. They slowly filled with tears, and Spain drew Romano back into a hug.

"But Veneziano-"

"I don't care about Veneziano. Forget Veneziano. You're Romano, not Veneziano. And you're the best you I could hope for, alright? So please. Please stop this nonsense. You are you and that is all there is to it. Now come on." He instructed, letting go of Romano and getting off the bed. "Let's go make some paellas."

"Wait a second." The boy wiped his eyes and hopped off of the bed as well, walking to his closet and opening it. "I drew this for you earlier." He picked something up and walked over to Spain, handing it to him. The man looked at it. It was a crude picture, but there seemed to be two people in it. One of them was taller and tanner, with dark hair and bright green eyes. They also wore a green shirt and red pants. Holding their hand was a shorter man with redder hair and a large curl, with a perpetual frown and a red shirt and green pants. They stood in a field with a sun in the corner of the page. It was a crude crayon drawing, but Spain loved it.

"That's me," He said, pointing to the taller figure. "And that one's you, right?" Romano looked at his feet.

"I wasn't sure you could tell."

"Of course I could!" Spain grinned, ruffling the Italian's hair. "I love it!"

"R-really?"

"Really."


End file.
